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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235078">and in the morning i'll be here</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaRose12/pseuds/JuliaRose12'>JuliaRose12</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Napoleon is very in love, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Movie, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, and Illya is very soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:21:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,355</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaRose12/pseuds/JuliaRose12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>four things napoleon notices about illya's sleeping habits and one thing illya tells napoleon himself</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>420</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and in the morning i'll be here</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>me: watches the man from uncle twice<br/>me: feverishly types for three days straight</p><p>!! i literally fell in love with this movie like ten minutes in, and i had too many thoughts about napoleon and illya to not write something. so here it is! thank you to my best friend alizza for reading it over for me and also for telling me to watch the movie in the first place. and thank you for reading! any feedback would be much appreciated :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1.</p><p>Napoleon Solo is, among many other things, excellent at making observations. He’ll accumulate lists in his head - ticks that those around him have, weaknesses of targets, tells that old friends display when they aren’t being entirely truthful. It’s one of his more useful skills, and a necessary one, one that he couldn’t keep the position he holds without. </p><p>Naturally, his observations extend to Illya. They have since the day they met - he’d honed in on Illya’s eyes darkening as Napoleon deliberately tried to set him off, watched his hands shake at his sides as he stalked away, and thus began his list of observations about his soon-to-be partner. Temporary had turned into permanent, and Napoleon’s list has grown with the amount of time they’ve spent together. </p><p>Sometimes they’re more professional findings, like the way Illya stands when he aims a gun or listens for footsteps down a hall. As time passes, they turn personal, Napoleon making note of things like the way Illya likes his coffee. Not all of his personal observations are about preferences though, they tend to enter the realm of habits too, and the first thing that Napoleon notices about Illya’s sleeping habits is that he is never willing to admit that he’s tired.</p><p>A Wednesday evening turns into a Thursday morning, and it's well past midnight as Napoleon and Illya occupy their desks, sifting through case files and mission reports and appreciating a quiet that Manhattan scarcely offers. </p><p>Napoleon has been switching between making notes and watching Illya, who, up to the current moment, has suppressed no less than three yawns by disguising them as coughs. </p><p>“Why don’t you head home, Peril?” Napoleon sets his pile of papers down and stretches his arms over his head, waiting for Illya to look back at him. “I’ll finish up here, and we’ll get an early start tomorrow.” </p><p>“May as well just finish,” Illya answers, sweeping a hand over his desk in a vague motion that might be meant to indicate his clock, or the papers scattered around, or the moonlight illuminating it all. “It’s late enough already.” </p><p>“You’re not wrong, but you seem a bit tired,” Napoleon yawns on the last word. “We both know that productivity and exhaustion are not the best combination when it comes to paperwork.” </p><p>“I am not tired,” Illya snaps, looking almost insulted that Napoleon would even suggest such a thing. “I am fine.” </p><p>“Hm,” Napoleon hums, and then in one smooth motion, grabs a paperweight off his desk and tosses it to Illya, who, frustratingly, catches it in one hand and sets it on his desk.</p><p>“See?” he gives Napoleon a small, triumphant grin. “Not tired.” </p><p>“Whatever you say.” Napoleon picks up another report, thankful for the three cups of coffee he downed earlier, which are undoubtedly the only reason his eyes are still working.</p><p>1:30 AM turns to 2:00, and when Napoleon chances a glance up at his partner after finishing another report, he can’t help the laugh he huffs out. Illya’s eyes are closed against his palm, his elbow resting between his papers and his neck twisted at an awkward angle. “Peril,” Napoleon whispers, and when he doesn’t get a response, he quietly rolls his chair back from his desk and steps around it to get a better look. </p><p>Illya’s breathing is gentle and even, his eyelashes fluttering every few seconds as he sleeps. The moonlight mixes with the glow of streetlights and the building across the street, smoothing out his edges and making him look peaceful, and almost vulnerable. </p><p>It makes Napoleon’s chest clench, an overwhelming feeling of fondness taking over, and his hand itches at his side to reach forward and brush Illya’s hair away from his closed eyes.</p><p>Well, that’s new. </p><p>“Illya,” Napoleon says in lieu of attempting to process any of the feelings that his tired mind just threw at him. He nudges Illya’s shoulder and Illya’s eyes flutter open, more slowly than Napoleon would have expected. “Thought you weren’t tired,” Napoleon says wryly, and steps back just in time to dodge Illya’s arm where he swats at him.</p><p>“Not a word, Cowboy,” Illya mumbles as he stands and reaches for his hat and jacket, but there’s something teasing behind it, and it’s the last thing that runs through Napoleon’s mind as his head finally hits his pillow later that night.  </p><p> </p><p>2.</p><p>“Where’s Peril?” Napoleon asks over the top of his mug, looking to Gaby as she lounges on the couch and flips through the third novel she’s picked up since she sat down. Their latest mission ending early has left them with a day off in Paris, and although Napoleon figures that Illya has gone for a walk, or found an antique shop, or is doing whatever else he does in his very limited free time, he’s curious, nonetheless. </p><p>Actually, he’s been curious for about an hour, but he's specifically made a point of not bringing it up. </p><p>“Sleeping, I would assume,” Gaby replies casually, not even looking up from her book. </p><p>“At noon?” Napoleon raises his eyebrows. The fact that Illya might still be asleep hadn't even crossed his mind. </p><p>“He likes to sleep in, when he can,” Gaby says, and Napoleon raises his eyebrows even further to make up for the surge of something like jealousy that shoots through him without warning. </p><p>Gaby rolls her eyes. “He told me last time we had a day off. Probably trying to make up for years of sleep deprivation.”</p><p>Napoleon nods, taking another sip of his coffee as his heart slows down and he wonders what the <i>hell</i> is wrong with him. </p><p>As if summoned by their conversation, Illya wanders into the kitchen, clad in a black t-shirt and pajama pants. He looks more casual than Napoleon has ever seen him, and that alone distracts Napoleon long enough to momentarily overlook the rest of him. </p><p>“Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty,” Gaby teases from the couch, and Illya waves a dismissive hand at her, but his face is soft, the corners of his lips perking up just the slightest bit. </p><p>“Rest is important,” he says by way of justifying the late hour. “Something you two should learn, rather than keeping me awake with your drinking into the night.”</p><p>“It wasn’t <i>that</i> late” Napoleon argues, but anything else he planned on adding to his sentence dies in his throat when he meets his partner’s eyes. Illya’s blonde hair looks almost golden in the afternoon sun, and it’s sleep-mussed above his forehead and around his ears. His eyes are piercing, as usual, but they somehow seem even more clear, and the warmth that Napoleon has been trying so hard to ignore for these past few weeks pools in the pit of his stomach once again. </p><p>“Late enough,” Illya rests a hand on the counter, the other rising to his mouth as he bites back a yawn. “You are both lucky I planned on sleeping in, or else I would have dumped your vodka down the drain.”</p><p>“Empty threats, Kuryakin,” Gaby chimes in from the couch, and Napoleon turns on his heel back towards the coffee pot, desperate to look anywhere but at Illya. </p><p>He fills a second mug slowly, collecting himself enough that he knows his face won’t betray him, and then swings back around and slides the mug across the counter. </p><p>To his satisfaction, it comes to a stop right in front of Illya’s hand. “Thank you, Cowboy,” Illya says as he lifts the mug to his lips, and the fact that Napoleon would rather stand here and watch Illya drink coffee than see a single Parisian sight outside their hotel room tells him, in no uncertain terms, exactly how he feels. </p><p> </p><p>3.</p><p>Napoleon knows, immediately after stepping through the battered front door of the safehouse in the middle of Norway, that there are zero chances of the tiny space having more than one bed. </p><p>It’s not a bad place to wait out a target in the middle of a mission, really - it’s small and could even be considered cozy if the situation was right. But the situation is very not right, Napoleon thinks as he drops his bag beside the dusty couch and rubs a hand over his face. Having to share a bed with your partner with whom you’re hopelessly in love is the kind of situation that Napoleon would much rather watch in a corny movie on a Friday night than be living through himself. </p><p>He and Illya spend the evening settling in and preparing for the next day. Napoleon makes dinner with what little they were able to grab from the small shop they passed on their way in, Illya complimenting his cooking in his own subtle way, and with nothing else to do, they clean up their mess and begin to get ready for bed. </p><p>“I can sleep on the couch, if you would rather,” Illya lingers at the edge of the bed while Napoleon sits on the side and double-checks his gun, sliding it into the drawer of the nightstand and turning to face his partner. </p><p>Illya’s face is serious, but his presence feels less commanding than usual. “Kind of you to offer, Peril,” Napoleon smiles. “But I’m fine to share if you are, and there is absolutely no world in which you would fit comfortably on that couch.”</p><p>He is in no way fine with sharing, actually, but Illya doesn’t need to know that. </p><p>Illya nods, pulling back the blanket on the other side and settling in. “The bed has less dust.” </p><p>“That it does,” Napoleon steels himself, then stands and attempts to make himself comfortable beside Illya. There isn’t enough room for both of them to lie on their backs - Illya is currently facing the middle of the bed, leaving Napoleon the options of either lying on his other side or facing his partner, the latter being completely out of the question. </p><p>Napoleon leans back on his elbows before flopping over. With his cheek pressed to the pillow and his long lashes casting shadows on his face in the dim light of the room, Illya looks almost ethereal, a completely different person than the one people think of when they first meet him or hear his name. When and why Illya decided that Napoleon would be one of the few people to see this other side of him, Napoleon doesn’t know, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. </p><p>“Sweet dreams, Cowboy,” Illya mumbles, and Napoleon can’t help the quiet laugh that bubbles out of him as he lies back down. </p><p>He shuts the light and settles under the scratchy blanket, choosing to focus only on the warmth of the bed despite the six inches of snow outside rather than the sound of Illya’s steady breathing beside him, when something so unexpectedly cold touches his leg that he shoots back up automatically. </p><p>“Sorry,” Illya breathes out, in Russian this time, and Napoleon gives him an incredulous look that he obviously can’t even see. </p><p>“Peril, was that your foot?” </p><p>“Da,” Illya finally opens his eyes as Napoleon turns the light back on. “Rest of my body is always warm. My feet, not so much.” </p><p>“I’m getting you socks for Christmas,” Napoleon tips his head back against the wall, realizing that despite the glaring issue with his current situation, he can’t remember the last time he felt this content. “I’m getting you socks and you will not complain for a second.”</p><p>“Americans are bad at giving gifts,” Illya replies, sounding sleepier by the second. “Your socks will not be an exception.”</p><p>“You just made that up,” Napoleon laughs and turns his head. “That’s not even-“ </p><p>Illya is asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, and Napoleon rolls his eyes, lies back down, and joins him. </p><p> </p><p>4. </p><p>The first thing that Napoleon registers when he wakes in the middle of the night, on a couch that isn’t his, is that the blanket covering him was not there when he fell asleep. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, to be honest. He remembers showing up at Illya’s door with a pile of case files for them to pour through, abandoning the files after an hour to share a bottle of wine when Illya insisted on teaching him how to play chess, and reminding himself over and over of the likelihood that none of it meant anything to Illya beyond a friendly evening between co-workers. </p><p>He lies there, for a moment, staring at the ceiling and wondering what woke him, when a noise from the bedroom down the hall cuts through his sleepy haze and he sits up so fast he almost tumbles off the couch. </p><p>The blanket tangles around Napoleon’s waist as he stands, and he slams his toe into the coffee table in an attempt to navigate towards the hall in the near pitch dark. </p><p>It’s not until he reaches Illya’s bedroom door and pushes it open that he realizes he doesn’t even have a weapon on him, but as soon as he steps into the room he knows that he doesn’t need one.</p><p>Illya is hunched over in bed, sitting up but nearly folded in half, with his forehead tucked against his knees. The nightstand is on its side, its contents scattered across the floor. </p><p>“Peril?” Napoleon steadies his voice and steps around to the window, wordlessly pulling the curtains open to let in some light from the street. He almost immediately wishes he hadn’t. </p><p>He can see now that Illya’s entire body is shaking, his chest heaving against his knees with every unsteady breath he takes. Napoleon doesn’t even realize he’s moved, but then he’s kneeling on the other side of Illya’s mattress, his hand hovering over Illya’s back. </p><p>“Illya, can I touch you?” </p><p>The nod he gets in return is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Napoleon rests his hand on the back of Illya’s neck, and then begins rubbing his thumb back and forth over sweat-soaked skin. </p><p>“Breathe, Peril,” Napoleon says, keeping his voice as calm as he can. “I’m here, we’re in your apartment. You’re safe.”</p><p>Illya makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat at that, and it almost makes Napoleon feel like he’s the one who can’t breathe. </p><p>“People die,” Illya suddenly mumbles, his accent thicker than usual. “I make a mistake and people die.”</p><p>“It was a dream,” Napoleon rests his free hand on Illya’s knee and tries to will it to stop shaking. “A nightmare. No one died.”</p><p>“I saw it,” Illya insists between shaky breaths. “I always see it. Civilians, sometimes. Children. Gaby.” </p><p>Napoleon notices then that Illya’s hand is covering his own on his knee, holding on so tightly that he doesn’t know how it didn’t register sooner. He doesn’t have to ask, but he still does. “Who was it this time?” </p><p>Illya finally raises his head and stares straight at the door, eyes glassy. “You.” </p><p>Napoleon lets out a breath to try to stop his heart from pounding, and takes Illya’s hand, holding it against his chest. “I am 100% alive. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Peril.”</p><p>Illya hums, seeming completely drained by their short conversation. They fall back into silence as Illya slowly calms down, Napoleon keeping a steady hand on his back and reminding him how to breathe. </p><p>It’s a short while later when Illya finally turns to look at Napoleon. His eyes are bloodshot, and they split something open in Napoleon’s chest, the final crack that breaks the dam and almost forces <i>I love you, I love you, I love you</i> out of Napoleon’s mouth. </p><p>“Stay?” Illya asks. </p><p>Napoleon answers by lying down, holding one arm up, and waiting for Illya to join him. And he does - curling against Napoleon’s chest and taking one more shaky inhale before he lets out a breath that feels warm against Napoleon’s neck. </p><p>“Cowboy,” Illya sighs into Napoleon’s chest as Napoleon curls an arm around his waist, and it’s permission, and trust, and something else that Napoleon isn’t foolish enough to hope for, but does nonetheless. </p><p>“I’m here,” Napoleon whispers, taking a breath and then pressing a kiss into Illya’s hair on the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.” </p><p>And once Illya is asleep, his features smoothed out and peaceful, Napoleon sleeps too. </p><p> </p><p>+1 </p><p>When Napoleon wakes at 6 on a hazy summer morning, there’s a warm, heavy arm draped over his waist, and he immediately closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. </p><p>When he wakes again, it’s 8, the arm and the person it’s attached to are gone, and something that smells suspiciously like breakfast fills his nose as he inhales and slips out of bed. </p><p>Napoleon steps into the kitchen to find Illya standing at the stove, his back to Napoleon and the most ridiculous mess that Napoleon has ever seen spread across the counter. Amid the chaos, there’s a plate with two average looking pancakes sitting on it, beside another plate with at least ten that are charred beyond recognition. Illya is tracing his finger across the page of one of Napoleon’s most often-used cookbooks, as if he could absorb the ability to cook right off of the page, and it’s so utterly amusing that Napoleon can’t help laughing. </p><p>“Cowboy,” Illya turns with a start, revealing that he’s holding a bowl of cereal in the palm of his other hand. “I didn't know you were awake.” </p><p>“No wonder.” Napoleon grins, stepping closer to investigate. “You seem very focused over here.”</p><p>Illya huffs, rolling his eyes. “Woke up early and wanted to surprise you with breakfast.” He gestures to the two salvaged pancakes, looking frustrated with himself. “Surprise?”</p><p>Napoleon answers by taking the bowl of cereal out of Illya’s hand (and thinking how very typical it is of Illya to have been too hungry to wait until the actual breakfast was done), setting it down carefully, and pushing him against the counter. Illya bows his head to reach Napoleon’s lips, kissing him with an intensity that Napoleon almost can’t handle this early in the morning. Warm arms wrap around his waist, and the two of them don’t break apart until they smell smoke and two more pancakes have been sacrificed. </p><p>“Thank you,” Napoleon kisses Illya one more time before stepping back and shutting off the stove. “We can finish them together.”</p><p>“That is a much better idea,” Illya turns back to the mess. “I clean, you cook.”</p><p>There’s enough batter left to make a considerable breakfast, and they bring their plates back to bed. August humidity seeps in from the city outside, but there’s a breeze too, making the room perfectly comfortable. </p><p>“You said you woke up early,” Napoleon turns as Illya lifts his fork to his mouth and makes a satisfied sound. “Were you not sleeping well last night?”</p><p>“I had no trouble sleeping,” Illya says. “Just woke up a little earlier than usual.” He pauses and swallows another fork full of pancakes. “I have been sleeping better, lately. Feeling more rested.”</p><p>Napoleon listens. </p><p>“It feels safer.” Illya meets Napoleon’s eyes as he sets his empty plate on the nightstand. “Sleeping beside you.”</p><p>Napoleon doesn't answer at first, too overcome by the fact that he feels the exact same. That whether he’s dragging Illya off the couch and to bed as Illya insists that he isn’t tired or counting breaths for him in the middle of the night, all of it just feels right, so right after wanting it for so long that Napoleon sometimes forgets that it’s even real. </p><p>“Well, I always aim to please, Peril,” Napoleon grins and leans in to kiss Illya again. “And by the way, that’s how I feel too,” he mumbles as he moves his lips from Illya’s mouth to his forehead. </p><p>“I love you,” Illya sighs against Napoleon’s neck, moving his hands to Napoleon’s shoulders and maneuvering both of them down from their seated position. </p><p>“I love you too,” Napoleon answers, like it’s the only thing in the world he’s ever known he was sure of, and neither of them sleep for a very long time after that.</p>
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